


Hold Onto My Flaws

by whereismygarden



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Golden Lace, PWP, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:27:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whereismygarden/pseuds/whereismygarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set immediately after the events of 2x19, "Lacey." Shameless PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Onto My Flaws

He knows the look in her eyes, because it’s a look he’s worn, and a look he’s seen. And it’s half-familiar on her face, the cruel hunger of bloodlust, because all desire is linked, though it never looked like this on Belle’s face. She tells him she’s glad, and he wonders for a second about the shepherd prince’s words. The man she fell in love with would do this, and had done it—he pushes away the knowledge that it’s wrong and smiles his old smile, the hungry smile of the Dark One.

                “Darker, dear. Much darker.” He can be dark for Lacey if he could be good for Belle. Her look turns appraising and appreciative, and the hunger shows in every gleam of her eyes as she watches him strike at the sheriff. He deserves it, after everything he had done, in the past and the present, and he can feel Lacey’s eyes on him, drinking it all in.

                He’s broken a few bones, he’s sure of it, when Lacey taps him on the shoulder. He turns toward her immediately, because she is Belle, somehow, and he’ll follow Belle anywhere, even into hell.

                “I think he’s had enough,” she says, half-laughing and giddy. He holds up his cane and inspects the end: it’s held up well, considering the number of men he’s beaten half to death with it. There’s a little blood on the end; it rubs off on his hand.

                “Are you sure?” he asks, and she leans into him, looking like Belle, but smelling like white wine and the awful stench of that bar.

                “ _I_ haven’t had enough of you, Mr. Gold,” she purrs, and he sees the hunger build in her eyes, and feels his own lust grow. He hasn’t felt so much like the Dark One in a long while. “You said you’ve been on your best behavior. I rather like the lapse.”

                “Do you?” He prods sharply at the fallen sheriff. “On your way,” he orders coldly, and, damn him, he welcomes Lacey’s breath at his neck and ear. She’s not even a little drunk, but she’s hanging onto him, in a way that can’t be good for his limp. He couldn’t care less. The pathetic lout at his feet half-crawls away, and he can feel Lacey’s lips curve into a smile. He turns and pulls her close to him, rather roughly. Not the way he would touch Belle, but she grins at him and tilts her chin up. “You’ve got that idiot all over you,” he hissed, grabbing a fistful of her hair. That wouldn’t do. He leaned down and covered her mouth with his, plucking at her lips with his teeth, putting his free hand at her waist.

                She feels like Belle, and she matches his kiss with tongue and teeth, nipping at his neck, and he knows he’s lost control, somewhere in all this. She tastes like the wine, sharp and sour, and he loves it. She smells like smoke and her little glittery dress feels rough under his hands, and he wants her. He runs his hands down her half-bare back, tugging against the laces of the dress, pressing his nails into her skin, and Lacey moans into his mouth.

                They end up against the back wall of the diner, kissing like they’re drowning and the other’s mouth is air. Lacey clutches at his hair and face, and he has one hand on her thigh and the other in her hair, keeping her pressed close to him. He’s hard, and knows his cock is pressing into her, but he doesn’t care. Lacey, for her part, only grinds against him and gasps when he bites his way down the side of her throat.

                “So you’re okay that I’m not your love?” she says, and he wishes she would just shut up, let him enjoy her and push away the guilt.

                “I’m not okay with it, dear,” he snarls at her, and her eyes are black with desire, spurred on by his tone. “But you are _mine_.” He grips her leg and bites at her shoulder, not wanting to look at those eyes, which arouse him in ways that should be reserved for Belle. Lacey licks at his throat and yanks his hair, putting an arm around his shoulders.

                “Well, if you’re so sure about it, you don’t have to be gentle,” she murmurs into his ear, drawing the hand clenched in his hair down his neck and back, and placing it at his hip, her nails, black like Belle’s, tugging at the fabric of his jacket. He almost stumbles at that, at her words, at the voice she says them in, pleading, because he isn’t being gentle. The part of him that liked being the Dark One rears up and claps its hands, and he unwraps Lacey from around him, gripping her wrist, and half-drags her towards his car. It’s parked at the edge of the lot, near a low-hanging tree, and he pins Lacey against the driver’s-side door, hands half under the short hem of her dress. She’s not wearing anything other than her thin stockings under it.

                “Rough enough for you yet?” he whispers against her throat, scraping his teeth along the front of her neck, and he can feel her blood pulsing fast, feel her gasping at his teasing.

                “Nearly,” she returns, voice uneven. She’s pulling at the front of his trousers, and all he can think is _yes_ , though some small part of him, locked carefully away, is saying _no._ He fumbles with the locks, trying to open the door and still hold onto her, and the way she’s teasing at him and pushing her hips into his isn’t helping. Finally, he manages to get the back door open and more or less throws Lacey into the backseat, her skirt riding up, one heel knocked to the pavement, the other falling to the floor of the car.

                He covers her body with his, not even trying to support his own weight, and the gasp she gives at the pressure isn’t an unhappy one. He tugs at the strings at the back of her dress, reminded of the cross-laced dresses of their old land. Lacey shifts underneath him, and the friction against his cock is half-unbearable.

                “Stay still,” he says, and presses his free hand lightly against her throat. If it had been Belle, he would have moaned and kissed her, whispered love, but whatever of Belle is locked inside Lacey, it’s not the part that wants affection. Lacey goes rigid and still underneath him, though he can feel her muscles twitching and her breath coming shallower. She likes his cruelty, likes that he could choke her if he tried, and he likes that she likes it. He lets his nails scratch along her back as he loosens the dress, and she whimpers under him. “You like this?” he asks her. “Everyone thinks you’re such a bad girl, so fearless, but you like it rough, don’t you? Too bad there’s not enough room in here to swing my cane, eh?”

                Lacey’s hips buck underneath him, and he’s sure it’s a result of his teasing words.

                “Please…” she moans, and he withdraws his hands from her back and throat to creep up under her dress and yank down the sheer dark stockings she wears, letting his fingers wander through the soaking curls and slick folds between her legs. He finds her clit easily and flicks at it, once, and she half screams, half groans in his car, head thudding back. She’s soaking wet for him, and he licks along her neck, tasting salt and feeling the grooves he’s left behind with his bites.

                “Come on, Lacey, I didn’t think you were the sort of girl to _beg_.” He flicks her again at the last word, and captures her mouth again, not letting her scream. He’s so hard it’s starting to hurt, but he can hold on if he can keep doing this. “Come on, tell me what you want me to do to you.”

                “Touch me,” she gasps, and he rubs alongside her delicate little bud of nerves, not enough, and she tries to push against him.

                “Be more specific, dearie,” he orders, and bites at her collarbone. He’s getting a thrill out of making his love beg for him, when he knows that usually he ought to have to beg for her.

                “I want you to fuck me,” Lacey rasps. “With my hands tied and I want you to make me kneel to you and I want you to blindfold me and gag me and I want to beg for your mouth and your hands.” He sucks in a breath of air, which comes stuffy and hot in the closed confines of the car. He feels sick and wonderful, with his true love mad and pleading and wet for him. He wants to do exactly what she’s asked, and he wants to leave her gasping and unsatisfied, but more than anything he wants to love her, this girl, this broken Belle, this woman who holds his flaws in the palm of her hand and purges the evil from the darkness.

                He drags her upright and maneuvers them so she’s straddling him, and he undoes his trousers and finally pushes his length against her slippery opening. She guides him with a hand, and he puts his thumb back at her clit and presses against her, hard and fast, with the same rhythm as his thrusts. She’s hot and tight and still his, and he suppresses a groan with each thrust.

                “I think all that can be arranged,” he says into her ear, through her moans, instead of saying _I love you_ , and Lacey curls her hands around his shoulders as she comes, and lets him bury his face in her neck with his release, nuzzling instead of biting.  

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of wanted this to be more violent, but Rumpelstiltskin wouldn't let me, with his damn guilty conscience.


End file.
